The enemy is within the gates; it is with our own luxury, our own folly, our own criminality that we have to contend.

For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.

Every stage of human life, except the last, is marked out by certain and defined limits; old age alone has no precise and determinate boundary.

The remembrance of past misery is sweet.

Men resemble the gods in nothing so much as in doing good to their fellow creatures.

Too much liberty leads both men and nations to slavery.

Friendship is nothing else than entire fellow feeling as to all things human and divine with mutual good-will and affection; and I doubt whether anything better than this, wisdom alone excepted, has been given to man.